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by mygiantoflannister



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-03
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 10:43:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4260309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mygiantoflannister/pseuds/mygiantoflannister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and Tyrion have been friends since her first days of teaching at Westeros High.  To get his father off his case, Tyrion and Sansa engage in a fake relationship, but what happens when their fake relationship begins to develop some very real feelings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Joffrey

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a continuation of a ficlet I wrote for Sansa x Old Men Week on Tumblr, also called "Home," which can be read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4189617/chapters/9589728)

Their relationship was practically destined to happen. Their fathers had been friends since childhood, they ran in the same circles, vacationed on the same Caribbean islands over breaks, brushed elbows with the same people at cocktail parties, and she would be teaching eleventh grade English at the high school where he served as Principal come fall.

He was, at first, handsome and charming and golden, and since she’d reached the age of twenty-three without having had any sort of “real” relationship, Sansa couldn’t help but bask in Joffrey’s attention.  And besides, he was a _Baratheon_ , not to mention her _boss_ , and she couldn’t exactly turn him down now could she?

When things took a turn for the worse (the way they always seemed to where Sansa was involved) Sansa accepted it.  She wasn’t a fighter—that was Arya’s specialty—and breaking up with Joffrey could mean the end of her job before it even began.  So she hid the bruises under jewelry and flowing long-sleeved tops and tried to act happy.

No one bought it.


	2. Tyrion

“You’re the poor girl that’s the latest object of my nephew’s affection, aren’t you?” he stated, only tacking a question mark onto the end of the sentence for the illusion of politeness.  The ‘he’ in question was Tyrion Lannister, a man who’d been on the periphery of Sansa’s view her whole life—always mentioned, always somewhere close, but never directly in the picture. 

“Well, I’d rather be known as the new AP Lang teacher, but I suppose gossip always trumps erudition,” she answered coolly, trying to muster a polite smile. It was only her first day, and she wanted to be known as clever, dedicated, Columbia-educated Sansa Stark, not merely as Principal Joffrey Baratheon’s pretty girlfriend.

“I apologize.  I was merely rejoicing in the thought that someone might be replacing me as everyone’s favorite discussion topic in the teacher’s lounge.”

“Fair enough.”

“Let me make it up to you.  I’ll buy you lunch, and tell you all the do’s and don’t’s of the Westeros High teaching scene.”

“See you at twelve fifteen,” she smiled, turning away from him and heading down the hallway.  By the time she realized she’d forgotten to ask where her classroom was, he was already gone.

. . . 

 

“So how was your first morning?” he asked when they’d finally sat down at a table in the nearby grinder shop.

“I was late to first period, but other than that, it went okay. Why, have you heard anything?”

“I thought you didn’t like gossip?” he challenged.

“I never said that!”

“You’re right, everyone likes gossip.  Anyone who says they don’t is probably the one being gossiped about. But no, I haven’t heard anything—not yet, anyway.”

“You mentioned telling me the ins and outs of the place?”

“Ah yes.  It’s simple, really. Do: befriend the administrative guys. Varys, Baelish, Pycelle—if they’re not with you, they’re against you.  And trust me, those are not people you want against you.  Don’t: go too easy on the students.  You’re young—hell, you could almost pass as a high schooler—so the kids are gonna try to take advantage of you.  Don’t let them.  Make sure they know who’s in charge.  But at the same time, don’t develop a bad reputation.  If the kids don’t like you, you’re fucked.  It’s a tough balance, but you’ll figure it out eventually. Also, don’t ever use the bathrooms on the third floor.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep all that in mind.”

“You’ll do great.”

She reached back to twist her long hair up into a bun, and as she did so, her sleeve slid down her arm, exposing the bruises on her wrist. Blushing, she tugged the sleeves back down, but not before Tyrion’s eyes saw them and narrowed with what could only be described as disgust.

“My nephew’s work?”

“No! No, I…I burned myself with my curling iron a few days ago.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.  You aren’t the first girl this has happened to, and it pains me to say I doubt you’ll be the last.  So tell me: did Joff do this to you?”

She nodded a small, nearly imperceptible nod.

“Why do you stay with him?”

“I can’t afford to lose this job.”

He brought a hand up to the stubble on his chin and rubbed it thoughtfully. “Listen, you just focus on being the best AP English Language teacher you can be, and I’ll handle Joffrey.”

“But I can’t just—”

“Let me handle him.”

“Why are you being so kind to me?”

“Because no one was kind to me when I needed it most, and no one should have to suffer the same fate as me.”

“Fair enough.”


	3. Harry

“Sansa, have you met my nephew, Harry?  He’s the boy’s lacrosse coach.”  It was the annual faculty and staff Christmas party, and all Sansa wanted was to survive the night without getting totally plastered or harassed by Joffrey until it was acceptable to leave, so she and Tyrion could go out for waffles at the twenty-four hour diner and gossip about their fellow educators. But here was Petyr Baelish, interrupting her wallflower act with some scheme of his own.

“No, I don’t think I have,” she grinned brightly.  She hated the way Petyr always gave her the impression that he was undressing her with his eyes, and the way his lips curled to reveal bared teeth in what he thought was a smile, but he was her mother’s old friend, dangerously influential, and not a man to be crossed.

“Harry, this is Sansa Stark.  Her mother and I go way back.  Sansa, this is Harrold Hardyng, my nephew.”

“Nice to meet you,” she stuck out her hand for him to shake, finally looking at the man Petyr was so determined for her to meet.  He was tall and muscular (but not overly so) with curly dark blonde hair and bright blue eyes—every bit the perfect Ken doll.

He shook her hand reluctantly, sour expression never leaving his face.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” Petyr decided, disappearing back into the crowd.

“So what do you teach?” he asked in a way that made it seem like it was a test, a way that seemed to imply that no answer she gave could ever be good enough.

“AP English Language,” she answered, “And what about you?  Do you teach or is your main job running around with your stick in your hands?”

“Funny,” he said, allowing the smallest hint of a smile, his cheeks dimpling, “Uncle Petyr didn’t tell me you were funny.  And to answer your question, when I’m not—how did you put it?—oh right, ‘running around with my stick in my hands,’ I sub in the science department.”

“And what _did_ Petyr tell you?”

“Just that there was a girl I _had_ to meet. Beautiful, redheaded, legs for days—nothing you haven’t heard before,” he said it as if being beautiful and redheaded with legs for days was the most heinously boring thing in the world.

“Does _anything_ impress you?” Sansa asked suddenly.

“What?”

“It’s just that you seem bored out of your mind—like there’s a million things you’d rather be doing than having this conversation.  If you don’t want to talk to me that’s fine, just don’t waste my time.”

“I’m sorry, Sansa, I’m not usually this rude.”

“But you’re always somewhat rude?”

He let out a low chuckle.  “I’m really fucking this up, aren’t I?”

“Just a little.”

“Let’s start over.  Can we do that? Please?”

“Fine.” She crossed her arms over her sparkly black minidress and tossed her curled hair over one shoulder.  “Nice to meet you, I’m Sansa Stark.”

“And I’m Harrold Hardyng.  Can I buy you a drink—and not something they have here, a real drink, at a real bar.”

“Sure,” she said slowly, “Let me get my coat.”

On the way to the coatroom, she passed Tyrion.  “You ready to get out of here?” he asked.

“Actually, Petyr introduced me to his nephew, Harry, and he’s taking me to a bar. I know it’s weird,” she said, noticing the surprised look on Tyrion’s face, “it happened kind of suddenly.”

“Harrold Hardyng, I’m impressed.  He hasn’t shown even the slightest interest in any women as long as he’s been teaching here.  I was beginning to think he was playing for the other team.”

“So, is he, like, a good guy?”

“I wouldn’t say he’s _good_ per se, but he’s as good as you’re gonna find at this school.  Have fun, and don’t do anything stupid, okay? I’m expecting a full report in the morning!”

. . .

“Well?” Tyrion demanded over dinner the following evening. “How’d it go with Harry?”

Sansa blushed into her carton of fried rice.  “It was…it was fun. He’s nice, once you get through his tough asshole exterior. We had fun.”

“You fucked him, didn’t you.”  A statement, not a question.

“Maybe?” she squeaked out slowly.

“Shit, Stark, I didn’t think you had it in you.  Was it good, at least?”

“Very.”

“Better than Joffrey—wait, no, he’s my nephew, forget I asked that.”

“Let’s just say he _definitely_ doesn’t play for the other team.”

Tyrion grinned a lascivious grin.  “Are you gonna see him again?”

“I hope so.”

She did see him again, many times, in fact, and over the next year, Sansa and Harry slowly but surely fell in love.  Petyr was beyond pleased, and Sansa couldn’t help but wonder if he had some ulterior motive, some upper hand in the situation.

Sansa’s life was perfect—she had a handsome boyfriend, a job that she loved, and great family and friends—but she didn’t feel happy.  At first, she brushed it aside as her simply not knowing how to be happy, but the feeling persisted, and soon she realized the unhappiness was because Harry had been acting differently the past few months. He was simultaneously distant and doting, overly affectionate and generous yet closed off and aloof. When she found the skanky pair of red lace panties on the side of his bed, everything clicked into place.  
Dumping Harry then became an unpleasant necessity. Being with Joffrey had taught her much and more about self respect, and she couldn’t love herself while dating someone that didn’t love her.  She surprised herself by being so calm through the whole thing—not telling Arya or even Tyrion until after she’d ended the relationship.

And then she was back where she’d been a year ago: alone again, naturally.


	4. First Date

“Can I ask you a _huge_ favor?” Tyrion asked over lunch.  It was a bright, sunny day in March—one of the first truly springy days of the year—and Spring Break was a few days away.

“Of course!” Sansa answered, her smile as bright as the sun streaming in through the windows of the teacher’s lounge.

“So, you know my father,” he began, speaking with caution, as if what he was about to say was causing him great pain.

“Not personally, no, but you’ve bitched about him to me on more than one occasion.”

“Well, seeing as I’m ‘getting up there’ in age and I haven’t had a girlfriend since I walked in on my ex in bed with my dear dad five years ago, he’s starting to get on my case again about ‘settling down’ and ‘starting a family’—of course, Jaime’s well past forty and still dating the Tarth girl that father hates but _that’s_ not an issue—but, anyways, I was wondering if you’d mind going on a date with me? Not a real date, just like, out to dinner at a nice restaurant or something, to placate Tywin.”

“Did you seriously just ask me out?” Sansa was incredulous.

“It’s not a real date!  We go out a couple of times, I bring you over to Casa Lannister for a nice, painful family dinner, everyone meets you, you charm them, they all talk about what a lovely young lady you are, and Tywin stays out of my hair for a while. Simple.”

“Ah, fuck it.  Sure.”

“Really?”

“I mean, it’s not like I’ve got hordes of gentleman callers waiting to take me out. And besides, this could be kind of fun. I’ve never been in a fake relationship before.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything.”

. . .

Sansa was in bed, enjoying a lazy Spring Break sleep-in, when her phone rang. She glanced at the phone, saw that it was Arya calling, and answered.

“Hello?” she said groggily.

“Hey big sis!  Long time no see—can we do something tonight?”  _Ugh why is she so peppy at_ —Sansa glanced at the clock— _eleven thirty in the morning._

“Oh, Arya, I’d love to, but I already have plans for tonight. Rain check?”

“ _You_ have _plans_?  To do what, stay in all night and knit?”

“No!” she said forcefully, before softening her voice, “I actually, I have a date.”

“Bullshit. With whom?”

“A co-worker.”  Sansa was squirming under the covers.

“Is he hot?  Do I know him?”

“He’s not _hot_ necessarily, but kind of, well there’s something about him that, that draws the eye. He’s smart, though, and really funny.”

“Wow so he’s not another pretty meathead asshole?  Do I know him?” she repeated.

“Tyrion Lannister?”

There was a noise on the other end and Sansa heard what she thought was a muffled shriek.  “Sorry,” Arya said finally, “I thought you said Tyrion Lannister.”

“I did.” 

“Shit, San, really?  You have a date with the _Imp_?  Joffrey’s _uncle_?”

“God, Arya, don’t make me feel like crap right before my date! You don’t even know him! He’s actually a great guy, and he was my first friend when I started teaching.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Arya apologized breezily, “You’re right. I don’t know him. If you think he’s great, than I’m sure he’s great, although with a boyfriend track record like yours…never mind.”

“I’m gonna go now, if you don’t mind, but we should get together soon. How about tomorrow night at my place? Seven o’clock?”

“Perfect, I’ll see you then.  Oh, and have fun on your date.  Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“ _Goodbye_ , Arya.”

“Bye, Sansa.”

. . .

“Hey,” Sansa opened the door of her apartment and greeted Tyrion, “Do I look okay?” She was wearing her favorite navy blue scoopneck dress, a white cardigan, and navy ballet flats.  She’d pulled her long copper hair back into a dressy ponytail, and applied her usual makeup.

“You look gorgeous.”

“Thanks! You don’t look so bad yourself!” He was wearing a checkered button-down shirt, khaki pants, and boat shoes. 

“You’re sweet,” he said, walking her out to his car and opening the door for her.

“So,” she turned to him once he’d begun driving down the street, “What’s the game plan?”

“I was thinking we go see that new Melissa McCarthy movie you’ve been talking about and then out for a bite to eat?  Maybe at Maegor’s?”

“I can’t believe you remembered I wanted to see that movie!” she said, touched by his thoughtfulness.

“Of course I remembered!  And besides, who doesn’t love Melissa McCarthy?”

They were waiting in line to buy tickets at the theater when Sansa heard someone call her name.  Whipping her head around, she spotted her student, one of the many Frey grandchildren and great-grandchildren that attended Westeros High.

“Hi, Walda, how are you?” Sansa asked, trying to keep her cool, and not act like an idiot just because her student had caught her out on a date.

“Wait a second,” the girl said, her eyes widening excitedly as she approached Sansa and saw Tyrion standing beside her, “Are you and Mr. Lannister out on a _date_?”

“No!” Sansa said immediately while Tyrion replied with “Yes.”

“No way!” Walda said, “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thank you, Walda,” Sansa said, “Have a nice rest of your break.”

The girl walked away, but not before taking out her phone and viciously typing out a text as she left.

“Well, now the whole school knows,” Sansa looked over to Tyrion, who suddenly burst out laughing.  “What’s so funny?”

“I mean, really, Sansa, we both have terrible luck.  It only makes sense that we’d run into the school gossip when we’re out on our first date.”

Sansa giggled.  “I suppose it is kind of funny.”

“Well,” Tyrion said once they’d finally purchased their tickets, “Let’s hope this movie is even funnier.”

. . .

That night, Sansa went to bed with a feeling of contentment that had been absent for quite some time.  Her night with Tyrion had been much like any other time they’d hung out, but something about tonight was different.  Maybe it was the fact that it was a date, or that they now had this secret between them, or maybe it was that a man had finally treated her the right way, but she felt more drawn to Tyrion. Like the night had brought them closer, somehow.

The following evening, Arya arrived promptly at seven with a bottle of rosé and a demand for details about Sansa’s date.

“We ran into a student at the movie theater,” Sansa smiled at the memory, “So now the whole school knows.”

“No shit,” Arya chuckled, “Did he kiss you?”

“No, he didn’t kiss me.  I think we’re gonna take this slow.”

“Ohhh so there’s going to be a second date?”  
“I think so?”

“Do you like him?”

“Yeah, I do, I like him a lot.”  _Just not in the way you think._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the kind reviews! Please continue leaving comments, because they only help me improve.


	5. Family Dinner

“My father called today,” Tyrion said when they’d hit a lull in the conversation.  It was a warm June day; school had recently gotten out and Tyrion and Sansa had an empty summer stretched out before them, teeming with possibilities.

“Oh?” Fake relationship or not, Tyrion was the best boyfriend she’d ever had.  He knew which movies to take her to, which plays she’d love to see, which restaurants she’d enjoy the most, and how to make her laugh.  _All relationships should be like this,_ she told herself, _I don’t even miss sex…that much._

“He wants to meet the—and I quote—‘famous Sansa Stark that’s taken over his son’s life.’” Tyrion rolled his eyes.  “We’re invited over for dinner this Sunday.”

“It could be fun?”

“Doubt it.  Cersei and Robert and Jaime and Brienne are coming, too.”

“Ugh, I hate Cersei and Robert.  Ten bucks Robert blows it off to go out drinking with my dad.”

“Get it all out of your system now, atta girl,” Tyrion guffawed.

Encouraged by Tyrion, Sansa burst into a sudden bout of hysterical laughter.  “This is gonna be a nightmare, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

. . .

“Tyrion, come in here!” Sansa called from her bedroom.

“Coming, dear,” he answered mockingly.  He was in her living room waiting for her to finish getting ready for the impending dinner in Satan’s pit.

“Okay, which dress?” she held up two options, a classy black minidress and an elegant red maxi.

“Whoa whoa whoa!  Please put some clothes on!” Tyrion balked, covering his eyes with his hands when he entered the room to find Sansa standing in front of the mirror in naught but a face full of makeup and—an admittedly very sexy—bra and panties.

“We’ve been “together” for three months—in a real relationship you would’ve definitely seen me naked by now,” she said flippantly, “But seriously, which dress?  I want to make a good first impression.”

Tyrion looked from one dress to the other, trying not to stare at her perfect, porcelain skin or her long, shapely legs or the way the necklace he’d given her for her birthday was lying in between her perfect, full breasts. “Try on the red one,” he decided.

She donned the red dress and a pair of black sandals and turned to face him.  “How’s this?”

“Perfect.  Tywin has a weakness for girls in red dresses.”  Sansa raised her eyebrows.  “Oh, god, that came out wrong.”

“Just a bit.”

“ _Anyway_ , you look beautiful as usual, and thank you for wearing flat shoes because, well,” he gestured to his short stature, “you know.”

She bent down and gave him a peck on the cheek. “You’re the best, Tyrion. Shall we go?”

Casa Lannister, as Tyrion so often referred to it, was an imposing stone monstrosity atop a high hill.  It was perfectly intimidating as befitting an intimidating man like famed Wall Street stockbroker Tywin Lannister.

“Tyrion, so glad you could make it,” Tywin said in a way that implied he wasn’t glad in the slightest.

“Father, this is my girlfriend, Sansa Stark. Sansa, this is my father, Tywin.”

“Sansa _Stark_ ,” he said deliberately with a tight grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “This _is_ a treat. I’ve heard many good things about you, Sansa Stark.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Lannister, it’s my pleasure to finally meet you.”  _This is easy.  Mom taught me well._

“Please, call me Tywin.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tywin.”

“So, what’s for dinner, pops?” Tyrion was deeply uncomfortable by whatever _that_ was happening between Sansa and his father.  He grasped Sansa’s hand as Tywin led them deeper into the house, as if that could somehow protect her from his family.

“Marta made us a lovely roast.”  They’d now reached the spacious living room, where Jaime was lounging on a sofa, his girlfriend Brienne perched next to him. “Make yourselves at home. Can I get you a drink, Sansa?”

“No thank you,” she said, sitting next to Tyrion on the couch across from his brother, while Tywin settled into a wingback armchair near the fireplace.

“Oh, come on, you’ve got to drink something!” Jaime had risen from the couch, “Jaime Lannister, so glad to finally meet you, Sansa.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Jaime,” she said, shaking his outstretched hand.

“Tyrion’s told me a lot about you,” he winked. “This is Brienne Tarth, my fiancée.”

“Hi, Sansa, it’s nice to meet you,” Brienne smiled. Brienne provided a sharp contrast to Jaime’s easy, classic good looks.  She was close to six feet tall, with short, choppy blonde hair, a face full of freckles, and the body of a linebacker.  Her eyes, however, were a shade of blue even more brilliant than Sansa’s, and her lips were pink and full.  No one would ever say she was beautiful, but there was something pleasing about her all the same.

“Where is your sister?” Tywin asked suddenly, “She should be here by now.”

“Hell if I know,” Tyrion muttered.

“I suppose we can head into the dining room. I’m sure she and Robert will be here soon.”

Cersei arrived—sans Robert—shortly after they sat down at the table. Wordlessly, Tyrion passed Sansa a ten dollar bill under the table.

“Something came up, so Robert couldn’t make it,” she said sourly, “he sends his apologies.”

“We’re glad you’re here regardless,” Tywin said, “Have you met Sansa?”

“Why yes,” she said, green eyes glittering with malice as her lips curled back in a wormy grin that was so like Joffrey’s. “Sansa used to date my _son_ , you know, before she moved on to—well I can’t exactly say bigger and better things, now can I?”

“Leave her alone you nasty bi—” Tyrion was furious.

Sansa placed a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. “Tyrion, shh, it’s okay,” she whispered as Tyrion settled back in his chair, still glaring at Cersei.

“My my, you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger! It’s so nice to see my brother so… _devoted_ to something. And how lovely that it’s someone like you, Sansa.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Tyrion asked.

“Well, little brother, in the past you’ve had a rather nasty habit of picking up strays.  There was that tramp you brought home a few years ago, and, oh, what was your first wife’s name?  Tyra? Tyene?”

“Just drop it, would you, Cersei?” Jaime pleaded.

“Tysha,” Tyrion said through his teeth, mouth set in a firm line.

“First wife?” Sansa tried not to act too surprised by the new information.

“What’s that, Sansa?  He never told you about Tysha?  It’s _quite_ the story! Way back in the day, when Tyrion was still in college, he—”

“Cersei, _enough_ ,” It was Tywin speaking now, and no one disobeyed Tywin, not even Cersei.

The rest of the meal was eaten in uncomfortable silence. Tyrion was silently fuming next to Sansa, one hand clasped tightly around hers under the table. Jaime kept looking as though he wanted to start a conversation, but then thought better of it. Cersei ate her roast and drank her wine with the haughtiest look on her face Sansa had ever seen, clearly convinced that she’d “won.”  Tywin looked mildly irritated, and Brienne looked supremely uncomfortable. Everyone was relieved when dessert had been served and it was finally time to go.

“Hey, sorry about Cersei,” Jaime said, walking Tyrion and Sansa to their car.  “She just hates when anyone’s happier than she is.”

“Cersei doesn’t bother me,” Sansa assured him, “Not anymore.”

“Alright, good.  And hey, don’t be a stranger, okay?  Brienne and I would love to go out with you and Tyrion some time.”

“Thanks,” Sansa smiled.

Maybe the Lannisters weren’t _all_ bad.

. . .

“You up for another family dinner?  Because Arya spilled the beans that I’m dating someone and now everyone wants to meet you.”  The disastrous dinner at the Lannisters had become no more than a distant, almost laughable memory, though Tyrion never had told Sansa the story about his first wife.

“Is it going to be as awful as the last one?”

“Probably not.  My family hates your family as much as you do, so that’s one thing in common already.”

“Fine, let’s do it.”

. . .

“So, Sansa’s dating another Lannister,” Rickon said, opening the door for them.

“Mom and Dad are disappointed but they’re trying to stay positive,” Robb told her, coming in behind Rickon.

“Yeah,” Bran joined his brothers, “I heard Dad saying something about writing you out of the will?  It’s probably nothing.”

“For once, I’m their favorite daughter,” Arya added.

“Good to see you, too, guys,” Sansa said, feigning hurt.

“Oh, don’t listen to them!” Catelyn came into the entry hall to greet her guests, followed closely by Ned.

“Good to see you, Tyrion,” Ned said, shaking his hand.  
“Good to see you, too, Ned,” he said graciously, “Thanks for having me.”

“It’s our pleasure!” Catelyn Stark was known for being the eternal epitome of poise and decorum.  “Sansa, introduce your guest to your family.”

“Everyone this is Tyrion, and Tyrion, this is Robb, Bran, Arya, and Rickon.”

“Hi,” he said, feeling the tiniest bit overwhelmed.

“Alright, no point standing around in the hallway! Let’s eat, shall we?” Catelyn began ushering everyone into the dining room.

Dinner passed in a happy blur.  Tyrion never thought he’d see the day where he actually _enjoyed_ being with the Starks, but that day had come.  He and Robb bonded over their favorite Quentin Tarantino movies, he and Bran over the best Stephen King novels, and Rickon and Arya kept him entertained with tales of their travels abroad.  Even Ned and Cat, who he’d always found rather dull, seemed more interesting in the company of their family.  Sansa was beaming the whole night, wholly in her element.  For the first time, Tyrion found himself wishing their relationship was real, if only so that he could become a part of this family—this loving, rambunctious, clever family so different from his own—for true.

Halfway through dessert, there was a lull in the conversation, which Rickon promptly remedied.  “If you guys are so in love, let’s see a kiss, huh?”

“Rickon!” Catelyn hissed, “Don’t be rude!”

“Kiss!  Kiss!” he began chanting, and was soon joined by his siblings.  “KISS! KISS!  KISS!”

“Fine!  Fine!” Sansa raised her voice, then, turning, planted a quick peck on Tyrion’s cheek.

“Boooooo!” Arya yelled, “Let’s see a real kiss!”

Tyrion and Sansa looked at each other, and she cocked her head as if to say, “If you’re down, so am I.”  So he took her face in his hands and kissed her like he would if she really was his girlfriend as the Starks erupted into hoots, holler, and catcalls around him.

It was a perfect kiss.


	6. Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very short update, but I hope you'll still enjoy it!

“So it’s been a year,” Tyrion began, looking up from his carton of fried rice.

“It has,” Sansa agreed, taking a bite of her egg roll, “And?”

It was March once again, the bite of winter still hanging in the air, but not enough to stop the crocuses from blooming.  Spring Break began several days before, and today Tyrion and Sansa ordered take-out for a calm evening in.

“And I was wondering if you’d be opposed to marrying me?”

“So that’s how you’re asking me?  No down on one knee?  No diamond ring?  Just subpar Chinese food and an awkward question?”  She tried to act annoyed, but in truth, Tyrion’s proposal was fitting with the overall ridiculousness of their situation.

“You didn’t give me an answer.”

“Of course I’ll marry you, you idiot.  I mean, this has gone on long enough; I might as well.”

“It’ll only be for a year, tops, I promise,” he said, still trying to convince her, or maybe he was just trying to convince himself, “then it’s a quicky divorce and everything goes back to normal.”

“That’s fine.  But I have a few requests.”

“Of course!”  _I cannot believe that Sansa fucking Stark agreed to_ marry _me._

“Well first of all I wasn’t expecting my first marriage to be a fake one, so none of this takeout proposal bullshit—I want grand, romantic gestures, huge diamond ring, the whole shebang.  And I want a real wedding, with flowers and a poofy white dress and a lemon-flavored wedding cake.  My parents would never forgive me if I randomly came back from the courthouse a married woman,” she paused, realized she was blathering like an idiot, and regained her composure, “I-is that okay?”

“Anything you want, Sansa, consider it done.”

“Well,” she said, pleased, “Then I guess I have a wedding to plan.”


	7. The Wedding

“Who’s ready to party?” Arya asked excitedly, entering Sansa’s apartment with the rest of the bridesmaids in tow. Sansa and Tyrion’s wedding was fast approaching, and maid-of-honor Arya had planned what she thought would be the perfect bachelorette party for her older sister.

“Party?” Sansa emerged from her bedroom in sweatpants and a t-shirt. “You said we were gonna stay in and drink champagne!”

“We are, we are,” Arya reassured her, before winking at Jeyne and Margaery, “But can you at least put on some real clothes?”

“Why?” Sansa asked, “It’s my apartment.”

“Just do it,” Arya insisted.

Sansa complied, and returned to the living room ten minutes later in skinny jeans and a lacy tank top.  “Is that better?” she asked.

“You look great!” Jeyne said, “Now wear this.” She handed Sansa a bedazzled cardboard crown with ‘Bride’ printed across it.

“Now who wants some champagne?” Margaery asked, heading into the kitchen for glasses.

“Me!” all the girls replied.

Shortly after Margaery returned and the champagne was poured, there was a knock at the door.

Sansa looked at her sister suspiciously, “Are we expecting someone else?”

“I ordered pizza while you were getting changed,” Arya explained, getting up to answer the door.  “Sausage and meatball, your favorite!”

At the door was a tall, slim man wearing large, thick-framed glasses, a baseball hat, ill-fitting jeans and a t-shirt.  “Did someone order a pizza?” he asked.

“She did,” Arya gestured to her sister, “Why don’t you set it down over here?”

Sansa couldn’t say she was surprised when the pizza boy took off the hat and glasses, revealing shoulder-length auburn hair with a strip of silver, or when music began playing as if from nowhere, and he seductively took off his clothes as he danced to the music on top of Sansa’s coffee table.

“I can’t believe you!” she hissed at Arya. “I said no strippers!

“Oh, please, Jaqen and I go way back!”

“Ugh,” Sansa wrinkled her nose.

“Not like _that_!”

“Hey!  Why don’t you give the bride a lap dance?” Margaery suggested wickedly.

“No-that’s ok I don’t—”  But Jaqen was already perched over her chair, gyrating suggestively.

“I’m sending this to Tyrion!” Margaery exclaimed, taking a video on her phone as Sansa blushed an even deeper shade of red.

_Seven save me. I wonder what kind of a night Tyrion’s having._

. . .

“How was your bachelorette party?” Tyrion asked Sansa. They were sitting next to each other on the short flight to Nantucket, where the Stark-Lannister wedding extravaganza weekend would be held.

“Arya hired a stripper,” she said sullenly, “and he came as the _pizza delivery boy_.”

“I saw the video,” Tyrion chortled, then, noticing her stern expression, corrected himself, “I mean, poor you.”

“What’d _you_ do?”

“The usual stag night activities.  Bronn, Jaime, and Robb took me to a strip club and we got wasted. I’m surprised Robb even made it onto the plane this morning, to be honest.  He was so gone last night.”

“Robb got _drunk_?” Sansa was astonished.  “I’ve never seen him drunk before.”

“It was great,” Tyrion smiled at the memory.

“So, how are you feeling about all this?  About the wedding and all this craziness?”

“I’m actually sort of,” he paused, “ _excited_ , I think.”

“Me, too,” she smiled, leaning over to kiss the top of his head. “There’s no one I’d rather be fake-marrying.”

. . .

The wedding itself was a simple affair—Tyrion and Sansa were married on the beach in the late afternoon, the warm August sun shining down on them as they vowed to take each other, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do they part.  Afterwards, the guests streamed back into the hotel ballroom for the reception.

Sansa cried during the father-daughter dance, drank too much wine, and tried to ignore Cersei staring daggers at her across the room.

Tyrion’s eyes welled up when he saw how absolutely stunning Sansa looked in her wedding dress, drank too much whiskey, and tried to ignore Cersei staring daggers at him across the room.

They could not have picked a better wedding song, Sansa decided as he danced with her new husband— _husband_ , how strange that felt!—for the first time to Once’s cover of “You’re My Best Friend.”  In the short few years she’d known him, Tyrion had become her best friend, and she did love him—if not quite in the way she was supposed to.  He does look rather handsome tonight, she thought, admiring the way her _husband_ looked in a tuxedo.

Sansa and Tyrion collapsed on the bed of their suite in the early hours of the next morning. 

“So,” Sansa looked over to him, “What now?”

“We _could_ do what’s expected of us—it being our wedding night and all,” he japed.

“Sure,” she answered.

“What?” Tyrion looked over to her in shock.

Sansa did not know what had come over her. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was guilt at the lie that was their marriage, or maybe it was the curiosity that had been lingering in the back of her mind since their one, perfect kiss the night they’d first had dinner with her family.  Surprising no one more than herself, she looked her husband in the eye, reached behind to unzip her dress, and said “Let’s do it.”

. . .

Tyrion awoke the next morning to sun streaming in through the large window overlooking the ocean and Sansa Stark naked in bed next to him. “Holy _shit_ ,” he muttered, sitting up in bed as memories of the night’s events came rushing back.

Sansa stirred in bed next to him.  “Morning, Tyrion,” she said sleepily, before reality sunk in and she noticed the state of her undress.  “Oh my gods!” she squealed, pulling the sheets up around her.

“Good morning to you, too,” he smirked down at her blushing madly under the covers. 

“So, we never speak of this?” she asked.

“We never speak of this,” he agreed.

With his luck, it was only fitting that the best sex of his life be a one-time deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	8. Marriage & Divorce

 “Something’s different about you, San,” Arya said, looking intently at her sister. Sansa had returned from her honeymoon to Fiji a few days before, and she’d met her mother and sister for coffee and to catch up.  “I don’t know what, though.”

“Marriage suits you, dear,” Catelyn supplied, “You just seem so much happier—so much freer than you’ve been in such a long time.”

“I am happier,” Sansa agreed, “And freer too, I suppose.” Marriage did suit Sansa. She loved cooking meals with Tyrion, sharing a home with her best friend, and the comfort of sleeping next to someone in the most innocent sense of the word.  Marriage was what she was meant for.

“I had my doubts about Tyrion,” Cat continued, “what with his last name and all, but I have to say he’s made a good addition to the family.”

“Yeah,” Arya grinned, “and thank the gods you didn’t marry a meathead!”

“Yeah,” Sansa echoed, her chest tightening. _I don’t want to disappoint them.  It would break their hearts.  But some things just can’t be helped._

. . .

When a month passed and Sansa hadn’t gotten her period, she wasn’t worried.  A few days late was nothing.  A week passed, and she started to worry, but she brushed it off a side-effect of stress from the wedding. Two weeks, and she thought it was time she told her husband.

“Can we talk?” she asked him when he returned from a night out with Bronn.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, eyebrows knitting together in concern as he sat next to her on the couch.

“Yes—well, no—I mean, I just—I don’t know,” she stammered, twisting her wedding ring around and around her slender finger.

“Sansa,” he took her hands in his, “Tell me what’s wrong. Is it Cersei?  Joffrey?”

“No! No, it’s…well…I’m late.”

“Late for what?” he asked, before her meaning struck him, and his eyes widened with incredulity.  “Oh,” he said simply, the loquacious Tyrion Lannister at a loss for words.

“I don’t know anything for sure but—”

“Say no more,” he jumped off the couch, “I’ll be right back.”

Fifteen minutes later he returned, plastic bag in hand, and dumped the bag’s contents out on the coffee table in front of Sansa. Out spilled an obscene amount of pregnancy tests.

“I didn’t know which kind to get, so, so I got them all,” he said apologetically.

“You ridiculous sweetheart!” Sansa snickered, capturing him in a hug and kissing him on both cheeks and his forehead, before scooping up an armful of tests and taking them with her to the bathroom.

Tyrion waited with bated breath for Sansa to return. For all of his loose morals and ladykiller lifestyle, he’d never had a pregnancy scare before. He’d always rather hated fathers, and didn’t particularly want to be one.  Especially not father to the child of his fake wife.  What would they do?  What if Sansa wanted to keep it?  He’d do whatever she wanted, of course—it was her body, after all—but what would they do? Would they get divorced, and be sentenced to a lifetime of alternating weekends and scheduled holidays? Would they stay married, keep the sham going, and raise a child in a loveless home?  What would they—

“So,” she said, returning from the bathroom at last.

“Well?” he practically leapt from the couch.

“I took about ten tests, and they all said the same thing. I’m not pregnant,” she offered a wan smile.

“That’s good!” He noticed the smile on her lips but looked deeper and saw the sadness in her eyes.  He’d become adept at reading her, even when she thought she was keeping up her steel mask. They knew each other well, almost too well.  “Right?” Now he was uncertain.

“No, yeah, it is—it’s great!  I just…I don’t know,” she crossed the room to the couch and sank down into it, as Tyrion resumed sitting beside her.  “I’ve always wanted to be a mother.”

_Don’t do this to me, Sansa._

“And you will,” he reassured her, “Someday you will be with the right guy and you’ll have a whole army of little ginger nightmares. But I’m not the right guy, Sansa, you know that.”

“Yes,” she sighed, a real smile gracing her lips, “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

_I would give her the world, if only I could._

. . .

“Remind me again why we agreed to this?” Tyrion whispered. It was a Sunday night and Sansa had invited Cersei over for dinner.  Cersei was in the bathroom, providing a momentary break from her incessant questioning and judging.

“Because I have to at least _try_ to be nice to your family,” she reminded him.

“Remind me again why you have to be nice to my family?”

“Tyrion!” She giggled, lightly smacking his arm, “You know how things are!”

“Sansa, dear,” said a sweet voice dripping with poison. Cersei had returned. “I couldn’t help but notice all those pregnancy tests in your bathroom!  Are we expecting another _little_ lion?”

The malice of her words was not lost on Sansa. “No, not right now. But I just can’t wait to be a mother!” Sansa chose to ignore her rudeness, “I mean, with my family’s looks and Tyrion’s brains, our children will be quite remarkable, I’d imagine. And you’ll just _have_ to give me all your best parenting tips!”

“Yes, well,” Cersei said finally, “Won’t that be something. That’s just what we need, isn’t it? _More_ Starks.  Although I’d imagine Tyrion must have a bastard or two running around somewhere.  I mean, with his past, how could he not?”

“Your humor never fails to delight me, Cersei! Although I’d imagine Tyrion couldn’t be the _only_ one with bastards, what do you think?”

Cersei’s triumphant façade faltered with Sansa’s saccharine suggestions.  Tyrion had never been more proud to call Sansa his wife.

. . .

A year passed, and Tyrion started talking about having his lawyer draw up divorce papers. Sansa nodded in agreement—that was the plan, wasn’t it?—but couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach that she was making a mistake.

“Alright,” he said at dinner the next week, placing a stack of paper on the table, “just sign here and then that’s it.  You’re a free woman.  It’s been a pleasure,” he continued, handing her a pen.

Sansa clicked and unclicked the pen several times, thinking of her friends, her family, her fear of disappointment, before it hit her.  “No,” she said suddenly, “No, I don’t want a divorce. I love you, Tyrion, and I think you love me, too.”

“Sansa,” he said slowly, “You can’t keep this charade going for the rest of your life.”

“This is no charade!  I’ve been lost my whole life and now I feel like I’m finally found.  And do you know why, Tyrion?  It’s because of you.  Being with you is like coming home.”


End file.
